Not Exactly Giants
by Sidney Sussex
Summary: Five things Lestrade can do that Sherlock can't and the one thing they both can't do.  De-anon from kinkmeme.
1. Chapter 1

_I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC._

_If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome._

_Special thanks to LeDragonQuiMangeDuPoisson for having read this over for me._

_De-anon from kinkmeme prompt: __"Five things Lestrade can do that Sherlock can't and the one thing they both can't do."_

_A/N: I don't usually de-anon this early, but with the way LiveJournal's been behaving, I'm hoping that perhaps the OP will be able to find it here instead._

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><p><strong>I.<strong>

Lestrade can't fathom how Sherlock keeps managing to get himself into these situations. He's been kidnapped by serial killers, imprisoned in museums with acrobat assassins, been left messages in bombed-out houses by brilliant psychopaths, and now, he's taken a graceful dive off a rail bridge into the Thames and, somehow, instead of breaking his damn neck, he's sitting shivering on the bank and there's a suspect in custody that Lestrade never hoped to catch.

He hates it when Sherlock's foolishness yields results, because it leaves him without a leg to stand on when he's trying to tell the younger man off.

"Go on," he says roughly instead, kicking a change of clothing toward the man still shaking under the orange blanket. "Put 'em on. If you catch pneumonia, John'll kill me."

Sherlock frowns at the tracksuit bottoms, T-shirt and running shoes. "What are these?" he asks, disdainful even as his teeth chatter through the words.

"My workout clothes. Does it matter? You can't stay in that sopping suit and coat, and I highly doubt _you've_ brought a change."

The grimace on Sherlock's face intensifies. Lestrade can tell he'd like to argue, but there's nothing he can really say, and so the detective inspector turns his back while Sherlock strips out of his soaked Spencer Hart, using the shock blanket to shield himself.

He turns back when the scuffling noises die down, and Sherlock's sitting on the blanket now, suit and coat in a crumpled heap beside him, and Lestrade's running shoes piled haphazardly on top.

"The shoes, too, Sherlock! You'll catch your death in soaking wet boots, and they're ruined anyway."

"The boots are fine, Lestrade."

"No, they aren't. Look at them – " and he tips one of Sherlock's feet up to emphasize his point; a thin, brown stream of cold Thames water runs out of the boot and soaks into the cuff of Lestrade's grey tracksuit bottoms. Instead of releasing the foot, he attacks the laces (takes a bit of time; the dunking they've received has made them slimy and difficult to manipulate) and deposits the boot beside them on the riverbank.

"Now hurry up. The other one's no better."

Sherlock sighs and pulls the second boot off, tossing it carelessly aside so that it rolls a few feet down the bank and settles dangerously close to the water's edge. "Happy?"

Lestrade throws the shoes at him and turns away to deal with something Donovan wants him to do. He's fairly certain it can wait, but after all, she's a member of his team and Sherlock isn't. When he turns back, Sherlock hasn't gotten any farther along in putting on the bloody shoes.

"Sherlock…" he growls warningly.

Sherlock crams his feet into the shoes (they won't fit perfectly, but they'll do, Sherlock is being infuriatingly overdramatic), flops back against the grass and looks at him.

"You're like a bloody _five-year-old_. Go on, tie them, and if you're good, we'll go to McDonald's after school today."

"There's no need for sarcasm."

"It's been a quarter of an hour and I'm still trying to get you to put on dry clothes."

Sherlock shifts his gaze away and Lestrade begins to wonder just what the hell is going on. So he asks. The detective casts a wary eye in Donovan and Anderson's direction, then says in a low voice, "Your shoes."

"Yeah?"

"They're lace-ups."

"Most running shoes are."

"I don't _do_ that."

"You don't…" Lestrade stares at him. "Your _boots_ are lace-ups."

Sherlock's voice drops even lower. "John does those."

Lestrade presses his lips together and turns away for a moment, trying to force into submission the laughter that threatens to escape him. Sherlock will never forgive him if he laughs, but…

"How can you not know how to tie your shoes?"

"It's completely unnecessary knowledge. I've never needed it to solve a case and I can't imagine I ever will."

"Is that all you think about?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock sounds like he can't believe Lestrade didn't know that already.

Lestrade stares at him for a moment, then kneels beside him and swiftly does the laces up, wrapping them around his fingers to make sure they're not too tight. He checks over his shoulder – no one on the team has seen.

"Thank you," says Sherlock stiffly, and motions as if to rise.

"You're welcome," says Lestrade, and can't quite hide his grin as he adds, "Now remember what I said about being good at school today."

It earns him a death glare, but he doesn't care. It's nice, for once, to see Sherlock brought down to his level, and he's far too human not to take advantage of it just a _little_.


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

The hall is large and, when they arrived, John couldn't resist raising his voice a little to see how it echoed. It's filled with people now, though, and any echoes there might once have been are muffled by the press of well-dressed bodies. Frankly, Lestrade can't believe Sherlock's agreed to take this case for Mycroft at all; it's only a little less incredible that he and John have had to come along, dressed in tight, scratchy evening wear that only sort of fits.

Sherlock is prowling the perimeter of the room; _his_ evening wear is tailored, of course. Lestrade and John have already finished grumbling about that and have moved on to wondering exactly why they've had to come.

"I need backup. Obviously," says Sherlock, coming up behind them.

"Sherlock, you've never admitted to needing backup in your life," John points out and finds himself on the receiving end of a black look.

"Not for the case," the detective elucidates. "For Mycroft."

Lestrade grins. "Never run interference for the Holmes brothers before, John? It's a question of keeping Sherlock as far away from Mycroft as humanly possible while convincing Mycroft you're doing your damnedest to get Sherlock to talk to him."

Sherlock smirks and wanders away, and Lestrade adds under his breath, "… and then 'accidentally' bringing Mycroft his brother if it really is important."

"Or if Sherlock gets particularly irritating?"

"I thought you said you hadn't done this before."

In the end, Mycroft saves them both the trouble by catching Sherlock on his second lap of the room and pointing out that a group of three men, standing at the sidelines instead of dancing despite a surfeit of partnerless women, draws rather a lot of attention, considering they're trying to be undercover. Then he leaves Anthea (no, it's not her name, but John and Lestrade have found it works as well as any other) with them and gives his brother one last, hard look before he moves along.

"I am _not_," Sherlock tells her, "going out there and… _dancing_."

Anthea smiles apologetically at him. "I'm afraid that isn't what your brother said."

"Yes, well, my brother doesn't know everything, much as he would like to believe he does."

She keeps on smiling, tinged with pity.

"Oh, get on with it, Sherlock," says John. "Lestrade and I can keep an eye on the perimeter." At Sherlock's derisive snort, he points out, "A detective and a soldier? You could do worse."

They all stand there for a minute at an impasse, Sherlock motionless with his hands at his sides, Anthea frozen in a sort of half-shrug.

Finally, Sherlock grits out, "Mycroft is doing this on purpose."

"What, making you dance with a gorgeous woman?" John asks. "Whatever it is he's doing to you, d'you think we could get him to do it to me instead?"

Anthea's eyes flicker to him and he grins ruefully. "Yeah, I didn't think so."

The hands that have been hanging loosely curl into tense fists. "Mycroft is well aware," says Sherlock, "that I refused to participate in my mother's attempts to bring me into polite society."

"Don't know if polite society would _have_ him," Lestrade mutters to John.

"Sherlock," asks John, "are you saying what I think you're saying?"

Arching an eyebrow, Sherlock points out that, without further information, that is rather difficult to determine.

"Are you saying that you – " John's going to savour this moment – "_can't_ dance?"

"I never found it worth my time," the detective snaps.

Lestrade bites his tongue and manages not to point out that _this_ time, the knowledge Sherlock hasn't bothered to acquire could actually have helped him with a case, so his usual argument won't work.

Instead, he offers an arm to Anthea.

She looks at him. Mycroft _did_ say that Sherlock was to dance – but then again, Sherlock says he can't, and the DI is awfully good-looking.

Sherlock gives him a look. "You?"

"Shut up."

"Well, _someone_ had better," John cuts in. "We're getting loads of strange looks, and wasn't the point of all this to avoid that?"

"Right," says Lestrade, and he wraps the arm around Anthea's waist. "For the sake of the case."

"Right," she echoes vaguely, and they're off.

It turns out that Lestrade has been rather less than forthcoming about this particular skill of his, and even Sherlock looks briefly impressed, before he hides the expression behind a much more characteristic scowl.

John shrugs – they can't blame _him_ for not dancing; he's a war veteran and he can still conjure up a fairly effective limp when necessary – and strikes up a conversation with a young lady nearby. That ought to look unsuspicious enough, and she is, after all, quite lovely.

Sherlock has never thought before that he would regret his decision to abnegate his mother's ballroom dance classes, but now he's realized exactly where his lack of dancing skill has left him.

Alone at the side of the ballroom floor.

With Mycroft.


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

Sometimes, Lestrade wishes Sherlock were not _quite_ so good a detective.

He's happy to admit he needs him (well, not _happy_, but it's undeniably true nonetheless), and he knows he needs him precisely because Sherlock's so good. The problem is, though, that Sherlock has the tendency to go off on his own and leave Lestrade to sort out where he's gone and why.

_Sherlock_, he texts angrily – there's no emoticon for gritting one's teeth in frustration – _'Wensleydale' is not a clue!_

For Sherlock, perhaps it is, but the detective has disappeared again and that one shouted word, tossed hurriedly over his shoulder, is the only thing he's given Lestrade to go on. Lestrade doesn't even know if they're talking about the place or the cheese. Knowing Sherlock, neither would surprise him.

His mobile buzzes.

_Yes, it is, if only you'd observe._

Clearly, Sherlock is in a helpful mood.

Apparently, he fails to observe, because he gets no further texts from Sherlock and he's not going to go out hunting for him on the strength of 'Wensleydale.' So he puts out a call to all patrols to keep an eye out for him – "What does the suspect look like?" "Tall, skinny, long coat, curly hair and he'll be rude to you," – and goes back to the office to prepare for the inevitable fallout of whatever Sherlock's doing.

He's gotten well into his paperwork (fully half of which is from _other_ things that Sherlock's done) when he hears a commotion outside. Glancing through the blinds, he sees exactly what he expects – namely, Sherlock, doing something new and inventive to annoy the entire Borough Operational Command Unit.

As usual, he goes out to deal with whatever fresh hell Sherlock has prepared for him.

He's completely taken by surprise to see that Sherlock's not alone. There's a stocky, angry-looking man beside him and Lestrade has no idea how Sherlock has managed to bring him here against his will – until the man lunges to one side and Lestrade sees the police-issue handcuffs on his wrists.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" he demands, as he makes a failed grab for the burly man. Two of his uniformed officers catch the man instead and hold him upright, waiting for their orders.

"I tried waiting for you," says Sherlock plaintively, "but you never came."

"What've you done? Why's this man in handcuffs?" Lestrade is rather hoping that it won't occur to anyone to ask why he hasn't made an effort yet to take the handcuffs _off_. This probably falls into the category of trusting Sherlock's judgment too much, but Lestrade can swallow his pride enough to hear the detective out first.

Sherlock shrugs. "I arrested him."

"You – _what_?"

"I arrested him. Surely you've heard of an any-person arrest."

"Did you catch him in the act?"

"_Where an indictable offence has been committed_," Sherlock quotes, "_a person other than a constable may arrest without a warrant anyone whom he has reasonable grounds for suspecting to be guilty of it._ The grammar is questionable, but I trust it makes my point."

Lestrade runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in every possible direction. "There are provisos on that, you know. Including that you can only invoke it if there's not an officer of the law available to make the arrest."

"There wasn't."

"Because all you told me was 'Wensleydale!'"

"Oi!" shouts the man in handcuffs, finally growing so frustrated that the officers on either side of him are no longer able to placate him. "What the 'ell you playin' at? Lemme go! This bloody nance shows up out o' nowhere, slaps 'andcuffs on me, starts tellin' me I done somebody in, an' all I'm doin's mindin' my own – "

Sherlock casts a long-suffering look at Lestrade, and Lestrade thinks that's a bit unfair, considering who it is that's got to deal with all of this.

"The accent gives it away," he says crisply. "Pollen analysis on the mud from the scene indicates the Yorkshire Dales, I'll give you the forensics – " (at his desk, Anderson snorts in annoyance) " – and the victim had just hired a gardener from Leyburn." He gestures to the stocky man. "There's more; shall I keep going?"

"No," says Lestrade, "no, that's enough." He sighs. "Wait for me in my office, Sherlock."

It takes the better part of an hour to initiate the formal holding process, find accommodations for the man, and get him out of the handcuffs (the easy part, as they're Lestrade's old set, pickpocketed from him a week or two ago, but Sherlock didn't take the key).

Sherlock is still waiting for him, a satisfied smirk on his face, when Lestrade finally finishes and closes his office door behind him.

"If you had relied on Anderson," Sherlock comments, "you'd still be waiting for the footprint analysis reports – six feet tall, sturdy, slightly favours the right leg, in case you're wondering."

"If I had relied on _Anderson_," Lestrade responds, "I'd have one less pile of paperwork, a significantly greater portion of my sanity, and I wouldn't be risking an enquiry into my methods."

"Hardly _your_ methods."

"Coming to the meeting to tell them that?"

"Well, I've arrested your killer."

"Sherlock, I want you to listen very closely to what I'm about to say." He dangles the handcuffs in front of the detective's face. "You may not own police-issue cuffs. You may not use my warrant card – for _anything_, I don't care how good your reasons are, if I catch you doing it, you're off all my cases for a month." He'd cave; it would be a week at most and Sherlock knows it. "And most of all, Sherlock, _most of all_. You do _not_ make arrests. Not serial killers, not teenage shoplifters, not _anyone_. Are we understood?"

"Are you forbidding me to make any-person arrests?"

"I'm forbidding you to even _think_ of loopholes that might lead to the idea that you're allowed to arrest people."

"It's a citizens' right."

"Tell me about the citizens' right that gets you all those cold-case files in your living room."

They're silent, Sherlock debating his options while Lestrade gears up to fend off his next argument.

"The Ronald Adair case."

"What?"

"In return for my relinquishing all rights to make arrests."

"What d'you want that for?"

"Something to read while I'm waiting for you to catch up and arrest the suspects?"

Well, _Anderson_ isn't solving it. He might as well.

The file is easily photocopied (they haven't got much evidence at all) and he hands it to Sherlock, glad to see the back of him for the next little while.

"Oh, and Sherlock?" he adds as an afterthought.

Sherlock pauses in the doorway to his office, looking back at Lestrade.

"Give it back."

He keeps his hand held out until Sherlock finally gives up and surrenders his latest warrant card.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

By now, he should be more than used to being called in on his days off. But they're getting fewer and farther between, and this time he actually has something planned, so it rankles just a little.

Still, that's how things work at Scotland Yard, and after a few failed attempts to shove the case off on someone else ("It's on the border line, come on, can't the Surrey Police take it?"), he's resigned to his fate. They give him directions over the phone and he commits them to memory as best he can; he hasn't exactly brought pen and paper along, pulled over here at the side of the A23.

Ironically, Lestrade arrives on the scene before anyone else from the team. After all, he was halfway there already, heading out to Brighton for his first proper break in longer than he can remember. Nonetheless, he's here now, using one hand to brush his hair back from where it's plastered to his forehead and unzipping his jacket with the other – it's a hotter day than he was expecting, and it's going to be unpleasant enough as it is, dealing with a body in this weather.

He flashes his identification at the local unit constable who was the first responder. The young lady looks a little startled at the realization that he's the DI in charge of the scene (well, he thinks, in a way, he _is_ a bit dressed down), but she waves him through and he gives all of it a quick glance over before leaning back against the doorframe, settling in to wait for the forensics specialists.

The next to arrive, though, is an ordinary black cab, the doors opening to release Sherlock (who looks a bit as though his birthday has come early) and John (decidedly less happy as he pays the cabbie from a threadbare wallet).

"Hello," says John, in much the same tone as he'd use to say _I'm sorry_.

"Hello," Lestrade shrugs back. He's long since ceased to wonder how it is that Sherlock always seems to show up where he hasn't been invited. Something about a gift horse in the mouth.

Sherlock, who can't be bothered with _hello_, has already vanished into the house to see the body. Lestrade doesn't _want_ to follow him; it's already warming up out here, the sun bright-burnished in a cloudless sky, and there was an awful lot of blood in that back room. He's got a responsibility, though, and he rather likes his job most of the time – he'd hate to lose it over letting Sherlock loose on a crime scene unsupervised.

So he goes in and hovers in the corridor, breathing the smell of slowly-braising corpse as little as he can. Sherlock darts about inside the litte room, his eyes alight as he refers occasionally to his mobile phone for information. John, luckier than Lestrade, is still outside; the cause of death is fairly obvious this time and so his doctor's expertise is hardly needed.

Sherlock's gaze snaps suddenly to Lestrade. "Has anyone deciphered the message yet?"

He opens and closes his mouth a few times. "… Message?"

"_Yes_," sighs Sherlock, patently exasperated. "There's a code there, can't you see? The way the papers are arranged…" He lapses into silence, kneeling in front of the pages of the victim's diary, musing over what he reads.

Knowing that he's thinking, knowing that inevitably this will somehow turn out to matter, Lestrade waits.

It pays off. Sherlock leaps up from the floor, all energy released from the coiled spring of his anticipation. "Your keys, Lestrade!"

"My – what?"

"There's going to be another murder – soon, _very_ soon, we've only got – " he checks his watch " – twenty-seven minutes!"

"Bloody hell." Lestrade spins on the spot, about to grab the young constable's radio and call out an alert, but Sherlock's insistent voice carries and he pauses in the act.

"The keys, Lestrade, the _keys_!"

"I didn't know you could – "

"Of _course_ I can, you never know when such things might be useful!"

Lestrade pulls the keys out of his jacket pocket, hesitant. He's not sure the detective is fully aware of what he's getting into, and Lestrade is quite emotionally attached – but Sherlock snatches the worn key fob from his hands and plunges out of the front door.

_At least he's not wearing that coat_, Lestrade thinks to himself, though of course the weather makes the idea of that ridiculous. _That could be bloody dangerous._

It takes a full two minutes before Sherlock reappears at the front door. He's brandishing the keys as if he's angry, but the expression on his face is purely puzzlement.

"Lestrade, what – "

Lestrade gets to quirk an eyebrow at him, but he hasn't really got the time to enjoy the fact that Sherlock's leapt before he's looked. Twenty-seven minutes, and he's going to have to give Sherlock a ride – there's _no_ way that experience is going to end well.

"Come on, then," he says, taking his keys from Sherlock.

"What?"

"Let's go. Twenty-seven minutes."

"Twenty-three," Sherlock corrects, and as they're running back outside, "When you said you didn't know I could, I assumed the word _drive_ was implied."

Lestrade stares at him. "Sherlock… I'm in _full race leathers_."

He's supposed to be a detective. How in God's name did Sherlock not deduce a _motorcycle_ from the jacket and the matching leathers? It's not as if Lestrade is wearing them in forty-degree weather just for _fun_.

He swings his leg over the seat, kicks the bike into gear and has to spare a moment for a grin. "_Told_ you I didn't think you could."

"Shut up," and Sherlock's climbing up behind him to ride pillion is possibly the most inelegant thing Lestrade has ever seen.

He shakes his head. _Nineteen minutes left_, but when it's all over, this one is going to be the stuff of legend at the next NSY pub night.

He's already trying to remember every detail of Sherlock's horrified face so he can be sure the way he tells the story does it justice.


	5. Chapter 5

**V.**

"It's for charity," John said, and behind him in the doorway, Lestrade nodded vigorously. They were in league with one another, that's the only explanation for the unified front they both presented when they told him they were going to do this. Surely that must be it – no one could honestly _enjoy_ doing this sort of thing.

Sherlock's standing at the edge of a wide field of short-cropped grass, wrapped up inside his coat and scarf but still not entirely managing to fend off the chill of the wet, foggy day. The rain is a far cry from the way the summer has been going, and it should be welcome – _would_ be welcome, if he didn't have to spend the whole day marinating in it.

Somewhere nearby a whistle blows, and a moment later, John appears, his face flushed and his hair matted to his forehead. The shoulders of his red T-shirt are damp, there's mud all up one leg, and yet, somehow, he's _grinning_.

Sherlock sniffs. Positively barbaric.

Lestrade arrives right after John; he's sweatier, but not as muddy, and he drops the football he's carrying in front of him and knocks it gently in Sherlock's direction with one foot. Not because the detective will return it – God, no, he's been sending disapproving frowns their way all day – but because he sort of wants Sherlock to feel included, and he can't really think of any other way to show it.

They grab water bottles from the cooler by the benches and stand awkwardly with Sherlock. Like John, Lestrade is wearing a garish T-shirt with a logo for the charity in question (something about heroes, and Sherlock knows it's about wounded servicemen like John – which is, in truth, the only reason he's agreed to stand here, not that he will _ever_ tell John that). They're joking now, one of them on either side, and Lestrade is idly bouncing the football against one knee, keeping it off the ground in some strange test of coordination.

Until his phone rings, and he lets the ball drop to the grass and grabs it from his pocket.

"Lestrade. Oh. Right, yeah." A pause. "Er – I _am_ a bit far. I'm in Blackheath at the moment. Yes. Yes, of course, I understand."

He pockets the mobile again and grimaces at his companions. "Got to go," he says, "murder in Ealing."

"Ealing's not even part of your team's coverage," Sherlock points out and Lestrade nods.

"Yeah, I know."

"Must you?" asks John. "Our side'll be short."

"Well, there _is_ a murderer on the loose. Sherlock can stand in for me."

John snickers and they both start laughing at the image in their heads.

Sherlock, though, thinks back to the evening John invited Lestrade to play in the tournament. "They got me back to London," he explained, "got me back on my feet, found me the bedsit I was in before I met Sherlock. They do the best they can." He sounded sincerely grateful, and Lestrade nodded his understanding and put his name down right away.

For obvious reasons, John didn't even ask Sherlock.

He drapes his coat over the bench, rolls up his shirtsleeves. "Where do I stand?" he asks John, who, as Lestrade is leaving, has now become the ultimate football authority.

"What?"

"Where do I stand? The rules are easy enough to deduce, but I assume familiarity with the game will provide more insight into where I'd be most useful."

"Sherlock what are – you can't even _play_ football!"

That's true, although he does have an idea from having been stood watching for the past few hours that it involves mostly a lot of falling down and shouting. They do kick the ball on occasion, and every so often it ends up in or near the goal. More often near than in, but either way, the shouting gets much louder and a little more profane.

"How hard can it be?"

"Well, it's not something one generally does in a bespoke suit and silk shirt."

"Oh, _that_. It was a gift from Mycroft," which should make it fairly obvious that Sherlock isn't concerned with keeping it pristine.

"And I can sort the shirt," says Lestrade with a grin, waving one of the charity logo T-shirts. "Come on, John, don't you want to _see_ this?"

"_You_ have a murder case," John reminds him.

Lestrade sighs and scrubs his face with a towel from his kit. "I know, I know, I'm going." It's another minute or two before he actually leaves, though, and by then, he's watched John's face go through at least three different kinds of incredulity as he realizes that Sherlock is actually serious.

"Sherlock," John says, gesticulating with the T-shirt Lestrade left him, "you don't have to play. We'll do just fine with ten. We don't really need a sweeper."

Sherlock has no idea what a sweeper is. He gives John a curt nod and smiles, tight-lipped, and like he hopes, John assumes he's glad of the escape route he's been offered. Which he is, a little, because he can't imagine standing out there on the field, being a participant in this bizarre ritual of manhood. But on the other hand, he also isn't, because John looked disappointed when Lestrade left, and because Sherlock can tell this matters to him.

John goes back on the field. His team lose badly, but he doesn't seem to mind; he's smiling all the while.

Sherlock stands at the side and watches the rest of the game. He's paying close attention now, and he thinks he might have started to sort out which players do what and when. It's probably not how most people learn football, but it's a little late to do it any other way.

And who knows? Maybe he _will_ need it for a case one day.

He'd hate to have to call Lestrade in for advice.


	6. Chapter 6

**VI.**

It's ridiculous, really, the way John keeps ending up in trouble; it's enough to make Lestrade furious. At Sherlock, because it's his bloody stupid lifestyle that's the cause of all of it. At John, because it's his bloody stupid stubbornness that won't let him leave off, stay safe, stop following Sherlock blindly into danger. At himself, because he knows all this and lets it happen anyway, hasn't done anything to try to warn John off – or Sherlock, come to think.

Bloody stupid, all three of them.

He pulls up – a patrol car this time, no bike – to the address scribbled down in his notebook, just in time to see Sherlock leap out of a cab. He'd texted the information to Sherlock as soon as it came in, surprised he didn't already have it, and of course, as usual, the detective found a cab that somehow managed to travel as fast as a patrol car with its blue lights flashing.

Sherlock's got John's gun (no, not John's gun, Lestrade reminds himself deliberately – just a handgun of _completely_ unknown provenance, not John's at _all_) but Lestrade can't really argue, as he's checked one out himself from an armed response vehicle that was sitting in the station's garage undeployed. He's technically qualified to have it – AFO training years ago, kept up to date because the ticket's too useful to lose – but this is an official operation, or it will be when CO19 arrive, which means he ought to be leaving the firearms work to them. It just seemed wrong somehow to show up to rescue John and not have brought along something to do it with.

It's all over fairly quickly after the SFOs arrive. The snipers are subdued, the guards arrested, and John is found tied to a chair, unconscious in a small maintenance room in the warehouse. The ambulance takes him away, because there's blood trickling out from a wound above his hairline and he's been treated pretty badly; Sherlock and Lestrade follow behind in the patrol car, keeping the blue lights on all the way.

They face each other across John's hospital bed. Lestrade is sitting, Sherlock's pacing. John, oblivious to all of it, is still unconscious; the doctors have told them that he'll probably be fine (and this is John, he's always fine, he has to be), but he hasn't woken up to _prove_ it yet, so they're still waiting.

Sherlock finishes typing out a text and glances up at Lestrade. "The remainder of the smuggling ring has been cleared out," he tells him. He looks a little irritated, no doubt because it's Mycroft who's taken care of the job.

Lestrade should probably be pleased at the news, but instead, he only shakes his head. Sherlock gives him a curious look, and he loses his last shred of self-restraint and bursts out, "Can't you just bloody keep him safe?"

It surprises him a little that he's said it. After all, he's known Sherlock five years and never tried to stop him throwing himself into danger – but this is somehow different. Maybe it's because Sherlock's so arrogant he seems indestructible, or maybe it's just because by contrast, John looks so much less so at the moment.

"No," says Sherlock, "and neither can you."

He knows it's true. John Watson rushes in where angels fear to tread, and the idea of trying to prevent his doing so for Sherlock is more than Lestrade would like to contemplate right now.

They look at each other, then at John. He may look harmless, but he's shot and killed a man – a number of men, probably, though he doesn't talk about his army days. Lestrade tries to picture him, sitting at home while Sherlock sprints all over London on a case. He tries to imagine himself, running up the stairs to 221B, asking, 'Will you come?' and meaning only Sherlock.

The detective, reading his mind as usual, says, "You couldn't if you tried."

He meets Sherlock's gaze. "I wouldn't if I could."

A kind of quiet understanding passes between them and for once, Sherlock is neither flippant nor contemptuous. The three of them have struck a sort of balance, and it's not about keeping each other out of danger – they're all grown men, and none of them the sort to shy away from risk. The best they can do is patch one another up afterward and tell each other off for having been so bloody stupid.

It's what they've been doing all along, and it seems to work for them.

By the time John comes around, Sherlock is back to his familiar cutting sarcasm and Lestrade is putting up with it as usual, despite the occasional heavy sigh or pointed look.

"Honestly…" is the first thing John says, grinning weakly. "Can't you two get along for five minutes without me?"

They exchange an indecipherable look over John's head.

Neither one of them wants to find out.


End file.
